


Father, Christmas

by Wasted_Shadows



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018), NOS4A2 (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Christmas, Christmas Music, Christmasland, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dog death in chapter 5, Drew Pearce, Gore, Joe Hill - Freeform, Kidnapping, Vampires, Zachary Quinto cinematic universe, rolls royce wraith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wasted_Shadows/pseuds/Wasted_Shadows
Summary: What would happen if Crosby Franklin, his father's greatest disappointment, went to work for a man who does not take kindly to disappointments? Crosby starts helping Charlie Manx take children to Christmasland. Can he take 10 before he fucks up too badly?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be really fun to explore both of these characters working together in the same setting. Even though Zachary Quinto plays both of them on screen, they're basically polar opposites of each other.

Crosby watched as the dark elongated sack sunk under the still waves. Three hours earlier it had been a man, one of his father’s many business partners. Now the flesh within the body bag would feed the fish for several days. It wasn’t usual for Crosby to dispose of bodies like this. Normally his father would take the opportunity to drown them alive, that way it would be easier to fake the evidence for the police report. Unfortunately, in this case the man was already dead before the Wolfking got the pleasure, so he sent his son out to dispose of the body whilst he retired for the evening. Crosby used to wonder what happened to the families of those his father had killed, returned to the ocean for crossing him. He had tried for so long not to let it linger on his mind and eventually the feelings came less and less. Feeling guilty for the deaths, especially those by his own hands, was a sign of weakness he thought, and with weakness brought disappointment. He already disappointed his father in every way. Crosby would do everything his father asked of him and more, but he just couldn’t get anything right and was made to know it. At for least tonight, he thought, as the gentle slap of the waves against the legs of the pier swallowed its latest victim, he’d done everything right. He could go home knowing that his father would be a little less disappointed. He could sleep knowing he’d been competent for one day. Trying to impress his father was exhausting, but at least the repercussions weren’t too severe. Only humiliation. So far, nobody important had gotten hurt due to his failures except for himself; and that was fine. So long as he could have those days where his father would think of him less of an embarrassment, it was all worth it. He just didn’t realise how unhappy it made him feel.

Crosby’s mother had left when he was young. An unexpected third pregnancy had created a rift between his parents. The relationship was already strained before the Wolfking learned that he would become a father again, but this was the straw the broke the camel’s back. She had wanted to get an abortion; she wasn’t sure she could cope with raising another child with Orian, especially as he was almost 15 years older than her. Orian insisted that she kept the child. The more children he could call his own, the more his empire could flourish. She had tried to stay, but two years of raising their newest son without so much as a sliver of help from Orian, especially after she’d done the same for their previous two children and the Wolfking’s four other children, she couldn’t take it any longer. She took off immediately after the divorce papers were signed, leaving Crosby in his father’s custody. Once single, Orian had hired a nanny to care for his three youngest children, so whilst the eldest children joined Orian’s metropolis of crime, Crosby grew up only knowing his father from a distance. He would watch in awe at the things and people his father would bring home and he would always hear tales of his crimes. Crosby began to idolise his father and decided from a young age that he wanted to be just like him. He would do everything possible to catch his attention whilst he could. Of course, however, the lack of nurturing from the Wolfking combined with Crosby’s blind admiration only furthered Crosby’s humiliating neglect.

At thirteen years old Crosby begun occasionally accompanying the Wolfking on jobs. Only a handful at first, but it served as Crosby’s initiation into dark side of his father’s work. Orian would keep him at arm’s length on jobs, and when things got bloody, he would force his son to watch. No matter how hard Crosby screamed out of tune to the screams of dying men, his father wouldn’t let him go back to the car, wouldn’t let him hide, and would ridicule every tear he shed. If his son really wanted to be like him, Orian knew he needed to be acclimatised to the sight of blood and death. It would take many, many years before Crosby eventually would, and he was in his mid-20s before he could finally handle the deaths. He’d internalised the pain, the sounds of screams, the blood - it made him cold, and it made him aggressive, just how Orian had wanted all those years before - but Orian had given up on his son many years before. Crosby was 15 when Orian finally realised that he would never grow into a man he’d have use for, and so he’d desperately tried to send him on a different path. Orian’s message to his son on his sixteenth birthday was a last ditch attempt to steer him away from his work, but it only encouraged Crosby to try harder to earn his respect, to become a man his father could be proud of.

Now aged 32, Crosby was still not that man. In addition to Crosby’s continuing fuck ups, the rejection his father had expressed when he came out a few years before was still raw; in fact, it had only accelerated the disappointment. Crosby was trying so hard, he could kill now without a second thought and although the sound of gunshots still made him flinch, he didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, or order other people to pull it for him. But still he couldn’t win. He was growing tired. The anxiety, the depression, the feelings that he’d buried deep inside him which he could only manifest as aggression were beginning to eat him away. All he wanted was to make someone proud.

Crosby watched as the dark elongated sack sunk under the still waves. It had only been a few short moments before that he had thrown it off the end of the pier, but at the same time it already felt like had been an eternity. He watched until the ripples died and the black shadow in the water was no more than a memory. He felt nothing as it sunk out of view, no remorse, no guilt. He’d trained himself not to. Taking his eyes off the waves Crosby stared up into the stars for a moment. There weren’t many stars you could see from Los Angeles, but they were still there. They beckoned for him to follow them, to a place filled with light but where every star shimmered against a black sky. He caught a glance of the moon and for a moment he swore that in the glowing crescent he could see a face with a long hook-shaped nose gazing down lazily at him with one bulging blood-shot eye. Its mouth was agape in a grin, revealing rows of crooked, sharp, yellowing moon teeth. He blinked and rubbed his eyes in shock, but when he caught another glimpse of the moon it back to normal. There was no face to be seen. It was late and Crosby thought his tiredness was playing tricks with his eyes.

With a sigh he turned from the edge of the pier and started walking back to shore. His boots clomped on the wood underfoot, the sound deafening above the gentle whoosh of the waves. Crosby would always check the surroundings before stepping out to sea in case he had been followed, and everything had seemed normal on his way to the waves. But as he returned to solid ground something made him freeze. There was a shadow some way ahead which hadn’t been there a few moments ago. Crosby had made this walk hundreds of times before and knew his surroundings in the dark like the back of his hands. He knew instantly that there was something wrong. As he got closer, he realised it was was a car, blending into the shadows of the side of a building. _SHIT_ the voice in his head growled. He’d been careless enough to allow someone to follow him, so not only would he be a disappointment once again, he might also wind up dead. Crosby squinted at the shadowy car for a few moments, trying desperately to see if anyone was sat inside.

Suddenly there was movement from within and Crosby heard Mariah Carey start to sing “I don’t want a lot for Christmas. There is just one thing I need...” Every instinct in Crosby’s body was to run. He was there without any of his crew so if he could find somewhere to hide whilst whoever was in the car lost chase, he’d be okey. Except the only thing that prevented him was Mariah Carey. It was February, so why would anyone in their right mind still be listening to Christmas music?

Without warning the car’s headlights switched on, blinding him. He let out a yelp of fright and raised a hand to his eyes to block out the light. From beneath his fingers he could hear as the car’s engine roared to life and Crosby knew he had to move, except his feet were planted firmly on the ground. The car began to roll out of the shadows towards the pier and soon Crosby realised that it was an antique; a 1938 Rolls Royce Wraith with an unusual license plate. NOS4A2.

Crosby shouldn’t have been able to identify the make and model of the car; he’d never expressed any interest in them. It was his father’s obsession with them that gave Crosby the knowledge. Although Orian preferred flashy sports cars, he had owned several rare antiques himself. He might’ve actually owned a Wraith himself at some point; Crosby couldn’t remember. 

Breath caught in his throat, Crosby watched as the car edged closer and closer, a glossy black beast creeping out of the night. Soon enough the Wraith was only a few meters ahead of him, and Crosby’s nose was hit by a wave of peppermint. Inside, Mariah Carey continued to sing about wanting only him for Christmas.

Once the car rolled to stop, Crosby peered through the windshield, furrowing his eyebrows at the shadow sat on the passenger seat. Except, it wasn’t the passenger seat. This was an old British car, so the driver sat on the opposite side of the car. Instinctively, his hand fell to his hip where his thumb searched for the handle of his gun, in case things turned sour quickly.

“There’s no need for that, young mister Franklin.” A voice boomed from inside. It made Crosby jump in fright and he almost lost his footing. He took a step backwards, before straightening himself out. _You’re already fucking things up_ , the voice in his head lectured him _. If you’re not careful you’re going to be dead, why didn’t you just run?_ But it was too late for running now. He could hear the soft pop of the passenger door handle – DRIVER’S DOOR – he made a mental note to remember it was the driver’s side, and it swung open. Even more peppermint swept through the air, dancing with hints of cocoa on Crosby’s tongue. A long leg slid out and delicately planted itself on the ground, just as the sound of horses neighing and clip clopping erupted from the car. They clipped and clopped for just a few moments, before The Ronettes burst into “Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring tingle tingling too. Come on, its lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you…”

Crosby was too distracted by the Christmas music in February and the comforting smells of winter, not that they had much winter in Los Angeles, to notice that the man was now free of the car and had risen to full height.

“Mister Franklin,” The man spoke again, his voice was as smooth as caramel, or honey drizzled over roast parsnips for the Christmas feast. Crosby snapped out of his trance and turned his entire attention to the man. He looked no older than forty; he might’ve even been around Crosby’s age, but Crosby couldn’t shake the feeling that he was much older. He wore a dark, round, leather brimmed hat, the kind that is to be expected of most classy chauffeurs, and a blue tailcoat with a large lapel, sporting glistening brass buttons. His face was long, and yet also rounded, with soft kindly eyes that made Crosby nervous. His mouth was agape in a grin, revealing rows of crooked, sharp, yellowing teeth.

“Who the fuck are you?” Crosby growled at the man. His facial appearance reminded Crosby of himself, but that was the only similarity. 

The man didn’t flinch at Crosby’s aggressive outburst and instead reached up and tipped the hat off his head, revealing a glossy black widows peak which swooped back into a full head of thick hair. “Charles Talent Manx the Third.” He replied effortlessly. “CEO of Chistmasland Enterprises, Director of Chrismasland Entertainment, president of fun.” Charlie Manx placed his hat back on his head and as his hand lowered, he snapped his fingers and produced a business card from thin air and then passed it to Crosby. On the front two thin candy canes made a cross above the name Charlie. Crosby flipped it over and read the exact words he’d just heard a second ago.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Crosby barked, throwing the card on the ground. It fluttered away into the shadows. “This is some dumb fucking cover isn’t it? I get it, you’re here to kill me. You’re from Detroit, aren’t you?”

“Oh of course not!” Manx gasped, his voice hinting at a slice of betrayal. “In fact, I come from Colorado. I don’t usually travel on this side of the Rockies, but I’ve been watching you for some time, Crosby Franklin.”

“You’ve been watching me?” Crosby’s eyes widened in fear. He could feel his anger rising again. How could he have let someone watch him. He knew if his father found out there would be more than disappointment, there would be serious repercussions. Crosby had been working so hard to have the freedom to work one or two nights a week without his crew, to prove the his father that he was competent on his own, but now he’d been careless and let this man watch him. Orian would never trust him again.

“Please don’t worry my young friend.” Manx replied. “I am not here to kill you and I certainly won’t allow you to get into trouble for having spoken to me, absolutely not!” The way Charlie spoke about not letting him get into trouble unnerved Crosby. How much did he know? “I have been watching you for many weeks,” Charlie continued in an effort to wipe the confused expression from Crosby’s face. “Not because I want information, no I already know enough about you and your father, but because I wanted to see if you would be suitable.”

“Suitable for what?”

“I am offering you a job.”

“A job?” Crosby spat, furrowing his eyebrows once again. “You’re out of your fucking mind. If you don’t leave me alone right now I’ll put a bullet through your brai-“

“If you would please,” Manx cut him off, holding an arm out towards the car. The side door popped open, as if by magic, inviting Crosby into the passenger seat. Manx was nowhere near the door so it puzzled Crosby that the door could have just opened like that.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I know you have had a terrible upbringing, Crosby. Your father’s neglect has left you feeling worthless. I know that all you do is try to impress him, but he never appreciates you and it makes you so unhappy. I wish I could’ve gotten to you sooner. What if I told you I could show you to a place so filled with joy and laughter that nobody was ever unhappy. In fact, it’s a place where unhappiness is against the law.”

“You better start talking some sense real fucking soon.” Crosby growled, but already Charlie Manx’s words were buzzing inside his brain. A place where he could never be unhappy? A place where he couldn’t be a disappointment, and where everybody loved him.

“You use such foul language,” Charlie tutted. “I shall have to make sure you do not talk like that in front of my children. Why, I am talking about Christmasland!” The way Manx changed subject so quickly, so smoothly, it threw Crosby off guard. He blinked at the man with the car, processing his every word. “I can see you are interested my boy,” Charlie spoke again after a few moments. “Let me explain. Christmasland is such a special place. In Christmasland every morning is Christmas morning, and every evening is Christmas eve!”

“Is that it? You’re going to take me away to Chrismasland? So I can’t be unhappy anymore?” 

“Not quiet. But I know you’re special! At first, I had my doubts, but I can see that you’re dedicated, you’re careful, and you do such a great job. You spend so much time making sure everything is safe, and you never leave behind evidence. I don’t know why your father is so harsh on you, can’t he see you’re trying?” Charlie mused for a second and then continued. “Yes! You are perfect for me and I know that you are exactly the type of young man I need to help me with my work.”

The sudden praise hit Crosby hard. He couldn’t remember a time when someone had praised him like that. The words Manx had spoken were short, but they meant the world to Crosby. He felt like he had just woken up on Christmas morning and been given the thing he’d always wanted. In a way, that’s exactly what had happened. 

“I have so much to explain,” Charlie continued, the corners of his mouth were turned up in a friendly smile. “But if you do not come with me soon, I won’t have you home by sun rise!”

Crosby was hesitant, and although he was still a little wary of this man, he felt that he could at least go with him without getting himself killed. Besides, Charlie Manx was the first man to praise him for his efforts in years. “If you’re not going to take me to Christmasland, then where are you taking me?”

“I have something to show you. I cannot take you to Christmasland yet, because even though every child is welcome in Christmasland, the grown ups must prove themselves. I have no doubt that you’ll be able to prove yourself, but there is something you need to see first. Come, I will tell all along the way!” 

Charlie Manx had persuaded him. Crosby crossed the short distance between himself and the car without saying a word and slipped onto the leather bench inside. All he could think of was the praise. The feeling of being validated was enough to convince Crosby of anything. Inside he searched for a seat belt, but soon he realised there was none. The car was so old, it had been built before safety regulations. The engine was still running, and Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas filled the space within the car. Manx slid into the driver’s side and pulled the door shut behind him. 

As the car pulled away from the pier, Crosby glared out of the window and rubbed his tattooed neck almost apologetically. For a reason he couldn’t explain, he felt like he was betraying his father and the Malibu Mob by going with Charlie Manx. _Maybe this will work out_ he tried to convince himself, _If I can prove to Charlie Manx that I am not a disappointment, then I can surely do the same to dad_. The two didn’t speak as the car drove onwards into the night. Crosby watched the streetlights flit past, and soon enough he realised how tired he was. He wanted to say something to Manx but before he could, Manx spoke instead. “Rest now, my friend. There is plenty of time for talk, but never enough time to take care of oneself.” Crosby leant his head on the side panel of the door in acknowledgement, and it wasn’t long before his eyelids had fluttered shut, letting Crosby dream.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie Manx did not tear his eyes away from the road when Crosby awoke with a jolt and a snort. As Crosby bolted upright on the bench and frantically took in his surroundings, Charlie casually flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. He turned his head slightly towards the mobster and bent the corners of his mouth into a smile. Crosby was groggy and for a moment had forgotten why he was in the car. He went to lunge himself at Manx out of fear and panic, but within a second his mind had regained its memory.

“Good evening Mr Franklin.” Charlie welcomed him back to consciousness. “You drifted off so peacefully. Usually I have to… slip a little something into a drink for my new assistant, but you, oh my boy you drifted off all on your own!”

Crosby frowned in confusion before he realised the meaning of Manx’s words. “What the fuck did you do to me I-“ He began before his eyes caught sight of the world beyond the wind shield, illuminated by the golden glare of the headlights. The Wraith was chugging with great care along a forest road dusted with snow. Thick flakes, as big as Crosby’s fingers fluttered from the dark sky, dancing between the pine needles on the deformed branches above. Up ahead he spotted a family of snow people, two parents and a child, huddled close together on the roadside. As the Wraith passed by, the snow family watched them go, waving their twig hands in glee and giving Crosby and Charlie cheerfully sinister smiles on their coal formed lips. Crosby had never seen snow this thick, not even when he had accompanied his father to Alaska for ‘business’. This wasn’t California, Crosby was sure of it, but it also couldn’t be anywhere close either.

“How long was I asleep?” Crosby snapped, taking Manx by surprise.

“You must learn to control your temper,” Manx’s voice was stern, but not condescending like how his father spoke to him.

“Shut the fuck up and tell me how long I’ve been asleep.” He snarled, his words coming out so fast it barely gave him chance to breathe. “We’re not in California anymore so where the fuck are we?”

“You were asleep no longer than an hour,” Charlie replied. 

“Err?” Crosby didn’t believe him, but Manx interrupted before he had a chance to throw more insults.

“We are still very much in California, but the St Nick Parkway does not play by any man’s rules.”

“What the fuck are you saying. How are we still in California if it’s snowing?” But Crosby knew that if they’d driven out of California the sun would have come up before they crossed the state border, and it was just as unlikely to snow in Nevada, or New Mexico, or even Mexico, as back home. 

“You see,” Charlie’s deep voice remained just as calm as before, his crooked brown teeth showed through his smile as he spoke. “The road we pass along now is one that exists in the world of thought. Oh dear me,” Charlie was momentarily distracted. “I get mistaken whenever I drive east. The St Nick Parkway travels from the west to Christmasland, but this road is very much the same.” Crosby didn’t understand a word of what he was saying and the expression on his face made that clear to Manx. “When a passenger like yourself dozes off, my car slides straight off the road it was on onto the St Nick Parkway when travelling from the east, or similar roads when I travel from the west. We are sharing this dream together, you and I. Look.”

Charlie peered up through the windshield at the sky. Crosby followed his gaze and saw a sky half blanketed by clouds, half sprinkled with glistening stars. The entire world below was lit up by the glowing face of the moon. The moon snoozed peacefully, its eyelids shut, but its mouth still parted to reveal the rows of crooked teeth. Crosby shuddered. Now he knew the moon that he had seen before was definitely real.

“I still don’t understand how you’re fucking doing this or where we’re going,”

“We are almost there. Sit tight. Then I will explain my work properly.”

They sat in an awkward silence for no longer than five minutes before the Wraith started to slow. It pulled up between a handful of trees and came to a stop besides a snowbank. Manx parked up but left the engine running and edged along the bench closer to Crosby. He leant forwards to pop open the glove compartment above Crosby’s knees and grabbed a flashlight from within. He passed it to Crosby before digging a hand in once more and pulled out a wind-up lantern which he kept for himself. With that Manx returned to his side of the bench and released the door locks, allowing himself and Crosby to step out onto the crisp snow outside.

Crosby was hesitant for a moment, but Manx was already out of the car and crunching away between the trees, so he didn’t have much choice except to follow him. He clambered out of the car, fiddled with the switch on the flashlight, and let about a pained bark when the blinding light flickered on, directly into his eyes.

“Don’t dilly dally, Mr Franklin. We have much to see.” Manx called from the shadows. Crosby flinched, feeling the heat of anxiety wrap across his entire skull. He was already embarrassing himself. He turned the flashlight away from his face and trudged in the direction of the lantern light that blinked in the pines; his boots left deep craters in the snow.

Manx had stopped by the time he caught up with him. He held the lantern at eye level and Crosby could make out the wisps of his breath in the light. The cold had hit Crosby the moment he stepped out of the Wraith, but he didn’t really notice it until that then. The hairs on his exposed neck stuck up in goose bumps as large snowflakes settled in his gelled fringe. Charlie was waiting at the edge of the trees and gazed out onto a frozen lake. For as far as Crosby could see, the vast expanse of ice was covered in a jagged arrangement of crosses and memorial stones, each dusted with snow which sparkled in the moon light.

“You brought me all this way to show me some fucking frozen cemetery?” Crosby questioned in irritation.

“This is the Graveyard of What Might Be.” Manx replied. “These are all the children who, if I do nothing, will have their childhood stolen by their mothers and fathers.

“They’re dead kids,” Crosby huffed, “What do you mean stolen?”

“Not dead.” For the first time Charlie’s voice cracked. He sounded like he was holding back tears. “Not yet. Maybe not for many years.”

“You’re still not making any fucking sense. What has this got to do with your work?”

Manx didn’t reply straight away. Instead he walked up to a crooked gravestone to his right and dropped to his knees. He placed his lantern next to the stone and started to brush away the layer of snow to reveal a boy frozen in the ice. His skin was deathly pale, and his blue lips were parted in a silent scream. His fearful eyes gazed up at the two men, pleading for help. “Maxwell Brock.” Charlie read the name on the gravestone.

MAXWELL BROCK  
 _17 Spenser Park  
Detroit, MI.  
When his father went away,  
His mother blamed him every day.   
his life was turned to drugs and crime,  
when Christmasland would suit him fine._

Crosby thought Manx’s reasoning for showing him that gravestone must have been a coincidence. He remembered the name of his father’s latest victim. A man from Detroit, who had tried to sell the Wolfking counterfeit electronics, Arthur Brock. Now resting in Anchor Bay, he’d taken a bullet to the brain. Crosby had watched his father put it there only two months ago. It must have been a coincidence.

“My work is complicated.” Manx spoke, snapping Crosby out of his thoughts. “Once or twice a year I rescue a child from their parents. The bad ones. I take them to Christmasland so they can spend eternity knowing fun and laughter, instead of misery and woe.” Charlie rose from the grave and walked a few paces to another one.

TAYLOR BALICO  
 _184 Rodríguez Drive  
San Francisco, CA.  
Made to eat rats and mice,  
all she wanted was sugar and spice.   
Guns won’t make her lose a hand,   
If she’s taken to Christmasland._

Things were getting suspicious now. There couldn’t be that many people in California with the surname Balico, and it just so happened to be the surname of one of the Wolfking’s arms suppliers. “These children,” Manx continued, “They suffer so much at the hands of monsters that they call mom and dad. I do not understand how the world could be so cruel as to allow little ones to grow up being beaten by their drunken parents, or be sold to perverts, or be humiliated, belittled, called names, for not achieving only the best results. It breaks my heart. These people are unfit for children.”

Charlie walked to a third grave. A stone cross was engraved with a name that Crosby didn’t recognise.

BEAU THOMAS  
 _6 Oak Avenue  
Norwalk, CA.  
Neglect will lead to a life of drugs,  
and his mother won’t stop the thugs.   
A joyride brings a great big thrill,  
but soon he’ll be living with the krill.   
A different car ride could save him still._

“I wish someone would return every bad parent to the ocean.” Manx looked at Crosby, desperation in his piercing brown eyes. “I cannot do my work alone, Crosby, you must understand that. That’s why I need your help. I need you to help me save ten children and take them to Christmasland.”

“You want me to help you kidnap children?”

“Absolutely not!” Charlie’s voice betrayed his bitterness. “I have already told you. It’s a matter of rescue and retrieval. I save them and give them the best life any child could ever wish for. Why, any child who knows nothing but sadness would give their teeth to come to Christmasland. Surely you can understand.” Charlie Manx held the lantern to one final grave. Crosby felt uneasy before he even read the words engraved on the stone. 

CROSBY FRANKLIN   
_El Lobo Drive  
Malibu, CA.   
He dreams of being a king,   
but his father won’t let him win.  
Belittled, humiliated, put down,   
his father wishes he would drown.   
In Christmasland he’d wear the crown._

“I am so sorry you had to see this. I truly wish I could have gotten there in time. Will you help me save the others before it’s too late?”

Crosby didn’t know how to feel. He felt so many emotions all at once that he quickly became overwhelmed. He could feel the anger in his chest burning, squeezing. He could feel the anxiety in his heart, tearing, searing. It made him shake. In that moment Crosby could have done anything. He could have cried, he could have drawn his gun and put a bullet in Charlie’s brain, he could have stormed off in a fit of rage, the possibilities were endless.

“No.” Crosby replied bluntly, his voice hoarse. “I want you to take me home.”


	3. Chapter 3

It has been three weeks since Crosby had visited the Graveyard of What Might Be with Mr Charlie Manx. In that time Crosby had pushed the memories of what he’d seen to the back of his mind and refused to even allow himself to think about Christmas. He didn’t want to acknowledge the final grave Charlie had shown him, or the conditions that had caused its appearance in the first place. Instead Crosby had thrown himself harder into his work. Every single day he’d worked tirelessly, harder than before, to show his competence to his father. It didn’t go well. A shootout and a close stabbing were all he could show for it. The deaths were in his name, and he’d almost lost Trojan, possibly the only friend he had. Of course, Crosby had to be punished. No more working without his team, and no more taking the lead. He’d worked so hard to get to that position, and within three weeks he’d lost it all. Now his father barely acknowledged his existence. If only he’d listened, if only he’d done as he was told.

The sound of music coming from somewhere in the house woke Crosby from his restless sleep. It felt like he’d hardly been asleep at all, the type of sleep where you’re aware of your surroundings and when you wake up you feel more tired than you did before you went to sleep. He hadn’t slept any other way for weeks now, and even the slightest noise would cause him to rise. He was on edge constantly, jittery, and nervous, and couldn’t take a risk on his own safety, or that of his father’s. Crosby was the only one of his the Wolfking’s seven children who hadn’t moved out. He’d convinced himself that it was a way of protecting his father, but in reality, he knew it was because he couldn’t bear the thought being alone. He laid in bed for a few moments, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the music. It was muffled and distant, it could’ve been coming from anywhere within the Wolfking’s mansion, but Crosby was sure it was coming from the great entrance hall. Crosby sat up, grabbed his phone from the bedside and pushed a thumb into the power button. The globe lit up and projected a little avocado hologram above as it came to life. He waited a moment for the menu to appear so that he could check the time. 3:17am. He’d only been asleep an hour. With a sigh he rubbed a hand over his face before swinging his legs out from under the covers and clambered out of bed. He considered putting on some pants, but it was probably only his dad playing the music downstairs, so he decided it wasn’t necessary. If his father had anyone round Crosby doubted they’d mind seeing a 32-year-old gay thug in only a stained t-shirt and boxers. 

Crosby was halfway to the door before he realised he should take some protection with him, just in case. He doubled back and grabbed the switchblade he kept next to his bed. Now armed, he headed out into the vastness of his father’s house, keeping the switchblade close to his side, his thumb on the button at all times. With each step along the corridor the music got louder until eventually Crosby could make out what it was. Burl Ives’ Holly Jolly Christmas, the version he’d recorded for the 1964 Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer TV special. Crosby recognised it from the movie, he’d watched it plenty of times, although he was far more familiar with the unofficial 2001 computer animated sequel which had come out when he was a child. Crosby had spent many Christmases as a child imaging that he was the son of King Moonracer (even though he was a lion, not a wolf), and that he was the Prince of the Island of Misfit Toys. _I might be a misfit_ , seven-year-old Crosby had told himself, _but I would be loved there, and I would belong_. The real world was a million miles away from being as accepting as the Island of Misfit Toys ever would be.

Burl Ives’ voice was as clear as glass now, singing all holly and jolly as Crosby reached the landing that overlooked the great entrance hall. He peered over the banister and set his eyes upon a thousand glistening lights. The tall marble pillars which lead to the door were dressed in spirals of multicoloured Christmas lights which blinked on and off, dancing in pre-programmed patterns. The smell of peppermint and cocoa tickled his nose, and as if by magic, flakes of sugar were sprinkling down from the ceiling, blanketing everything below in a sweet white carpet. All those things were pretty, but they were overshadowed by the centre of the room. A glorious pine tree, 15ft high, stood proud, showing off its golden baubles and silver tinsel as the sugar snow delicately peppered its thick green needles. Beneath sat rows and rows of presents, each wrapped in bright green paper and tidy red bows. At the base of the tree a shadowy figure held a strand of tinsel, reaching up to decorate the branches. It moved so smoothly, with such ease, that he thought maybe it was floating. Crosby gripped the banister tight, preparing himself to go down and fight, but then figured called out to him.

“Come on down here, kiddo.” His father spoke without turning away from the tree. “Come and help your old man.”

Crosby was hesitant, but the thought of his father wanting to spend time bonding with his son was too great. He released his grip from the banister and almost ran down the stairs to be by his father’s side. Suddenly he felt like a child again. In all the years he’d lived in that house, his father had never let him decorate the Christmas tree. Decorating the tree was something Orian was very particular about, it had to be magnificent, it had to be noble, and it had to be right. Crosby’s bare feet almost slipped in the sugar snow on his way to his father’s side, but his brain wasn’t really guiding his legs, the excitement was. It felt like he was running in slow motion, and when he had finally reached the Wolfking’s side the sugar snow had stopped falling. He tucked his switchblade into his shirt pocket and put his hand on his father’s back. With the other he reached to take the tinsel. Just as his fingers touched the metallic plastic, the Wolfking snatched his hand away, taking the tinsel with it. Crosby yelped in surprise and turned to face his father. The Wolfking slowly rotated to face him back, as if on a turntable, and it was in that moment that Crosby really noticed the horror of what he’d approached. The Wolfking’s eyes were sunken beneath his sunglasses, lifeless and empty behind the blood splattered lenses. His mouth hung open allowing congealed black blood to dribbling from his lips, staining the collar of his once white shirt. Below, the handles of a large pair of fabric scissors protruded from his chest. The blades were embedded deep in the Wolfking’s lungs, blood seeped down his front and dripped onto the sugar snow on the ground. A second, smaller pair were stabbed into his side.

Crosby’s eyes widened in shock. He screamed out for him. “DAD?!” His voice cracking from the pain. It was from this distance that Crosby realised why his father had looked like he was floating when he was up on the landing. A length of silver tinsel was wrapped tight around the Wolfking’s throat, hanging him from the tree. The bottom of his designer sandals hung above the ground, but below the height of the lowest branches. The sight overwhelmed Crosby. He staggered backwards from the tree, feeling faint, hardly breathing, the acid in his stomach rising to his throat. He knew Orian was dead, and he hadn’t been there to save him. Hands on his head, Crosby frantically search around for anything that he could use to cut his father down. He wasn’t going to pull the convenient scissors from his father’s corpse, but his instincts told him there must be something close. His brain didn’t register that he still had the switchblade tucked in his shirt pocket. Whilst he was looking, Crosby noticed that the front door was open; it hadn’t been open moments before. His feet started moving towards the door before his brain could even think. He was going to catch who did this and he was going to kill them. His bare feet kicked up clouds of sugar as he ran. Outside, real snowflakes, as large as Crosby’s fingers, sprinkled from the sky. They settled in his fringe and melted, running icy cold droplets through his undercut. It wasn’t the snow in Malibu that caught Crosby’s attention, but the pure black sky splattered with stars. He turned his head to the heavens and squinted his eyes in the bright moonlight. Where a normal moon should’ve hung, instead sat the glowing crescent he’d seen before. It’s one bloodshot eye gazed down at him and it’s gaunt mouth smiled menacingly, revealing every crooked sharp tooth. Crosby had never felt so much fear in his life. He felt like he was going to faint. Stretching out his arm in search of the wall, Crosby fell backwards. The world turned black and he fell for an eternity until… He sat up in bed with a scream.

Sweat trickled down Crosby’s neck, and his heart felt like it was going a thousand beats per minute. His breath was coming in short gasps as he struggled to come to terms with what was going on. It took Crosby longer than should be normal to realise it’d all been a dream. A nightmare.

As much as Crosby tried to convince himself that everything was fine, his anxiety levels were through the roof. He had to make sure everything was the way it should be, or else it would eat away at him all night. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and pushed a thumb into the power button, watching as the little avocado hologram changed to the main menu. The clock read 3:17am. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to return to a normal rate, and dragged himself out of bed. He skirted through the corridor towards the great entrance hall. The whole house was silent. When he arrived, he was greeted by nothing but darkness. There was no tree, no lights, no sugar snow. The house was sleepy and peaceful.

On his way back to his room, Crosby poked his head through the door of the master bedroom, his father’s room. The room was as empty and as peaceful as the rest of the house, his father wasn’t even home. Finally satisfied that it was safe, Crosby returned to his bedroom, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep. He stayed awake until the sun’s rays seeped through the window, just to be sure that he wouldn’t catch another glimpse of the moon. 

*

The dreams came every night, the same but different each time. He would hear music and go to investigate, only to discover his father in a mangled bloody mess, murdered one way or another beneath a shower of sugar snow. But it wasn’t just the dreams that haunted Crosby. On the third night, the dreams began being accompanied by phone calls. At first, they only came through his iPhone, not his AVOCADO, the one he used for mob business because it had an untraceable number. The call would always be long distance with an unknown caller ID. Crosby would answer the phone with a disgruntled “Hello?” and be greeted instantly by the soft sound of a music box playing unsettlingly festive tunes, sometimes Jingle Bells, sometimes Winter Wonderland, sometimes songs he couldn’t even put a name too. When no one spoke he’d bark something along the lines of “What the fuck do you want you stupid little-” but he could never get out an insult as the line would go dead before he could finish. After a week, the music would be accompanied by the distant laughter of children, their high pitch shrills barely audible over the music box.

Crosby didn’t realise he was the only one who could hear the calls until it happened on a job. He was riding shotgun in an armoured Range Rover with Trojan and another goon, Kyle, in the back. Dennis was driving, which was unusual for him; Dennis usually only drove the Wolfking. They were on their way downtown when Trojan’s phone started ringing. The first time it rang Crosby thought nothing of it. He assumed Trojan had picked up his phone, checked the caller ID and decided not to answer. No big deal, Trojan did that all the time. He was always on the phone during jobs and it annoyed the hell out of Crosby. The second time it rang they were traveling down the Santa Monica Freeway through Mid City. Trojan was mid conversation with Kyle, running over the plan, ignoring the buzzing of his phone on the middle seat. Crosby was getting agitated, he turned his body around to look over the headrest of his own seat, as if he was listening in, and threw a dirty look in Trojan’s direction.

“What?” Trojan demanded, breaking the conversation with Kyle. “There something wrong?”

“Do you fucking hear that?” Crosby huffed, shooting daggers with his eyes at the phone on the middle seat. Just at that moment the ringing stopped, and Trojan’s phone buzzed. The screen lit up. One unread message.

“Sorry…” Trojan grabbed his phone and set it to silent. “I was going to put it on silent before we-”

“Ya? Well put it on silent before we fucking leave next time.” Crosby spat and then returned to normal in his seat.

“Alright.” Trojan mumbled sheepishly from the backseat. Things weren’t going well for Crosby. He knew he needed to remain somewhat calm for this job, but they hadn’t even arrived at their destination yet, and his nerves were on edge. It was the third time that Trojan’s phone rang that Crosby really lost it.

“I thought I fucking told you to put it on silent.” Crosby whipped around faster than his eyes could focus before the first ring had even finished.

Trojan blinked at him in disbelief. “It is on silent.”

“Give it to me.” Crosby demanded, thrusting a hairy arm out towards him. When Trojan didn’t give him the phone immediately Crosby growled again. “Give me the fucking phone or you’ll never see the sunrise again.”

Deciding it was best not to argue Trojan passed Crosby the phone. He snatched it out of his hand immediately and spun back in his seat, seething with anger. He slammed the phone to his ear and snarled into the microphone. “Stop fucking calling me, do you fucking KNOW who I am. I’m gonna find you and I’m gonna-”

“Father is waiting for you.” A young girl with a harsh voice spoke. Crosby froze, realising that there was no music playing this time.

“Who are you?” He snarled.

“He’s waiting for you and he isn’t happy.” She continued, ignoring him. “We want more friends to play with and father won’t bring anyone until you help him. You don’t like disappointing your dad, so why are you disappointing ours?”

“How do you know about that? How did you get this number?” Crosby was physically shaking now, not only from anger but from fear. In the distance Crosby could hear the giggles of countless children, as if there was a whole classroom listening in to the call.

“Help father,” it sounded like she was talking through gritted teeth. “and we’ll give our thanks, otherwise you’ll keep hearing from Millie Manx.” The phone went dead. Crosby screamed and reacted without thinking. With shaking hands he slammed down the window switch and once the tinted glass had rolled down far enough he threw Trojan’s phone out of the moving car.

“HEY WHAT THE FUCK?” Trojan yelled from the backseat. He’d been listening to Crosby shout at nothing into his silent phone and now his phone was gone. He’d have to get a new one. Thankfully, Dennis was leaving the I-10 at the exit by the Convention Centre and immediately pulled over. Crosby ripped off his seatbelt, torn open the door, and threw himself out into the street. He staggered towards the parking lot beneath the exit slip, his brain feeling fuzzy and his nerves shot. Trojan yelled out of the car, asking where he was going, but Crosby didn’t acknowledge him. Instead he aimed for the lot. If he was under the exit slip, he couldn’t be seen from above and he’d at least be somewhat safe whilst he came to his senses. Except there was a car in the parking lot that he didn’t expect to see. A 1938 Rolls Royce Wraith, the front headlights illuminating all the other sleeping cars, beckoning him to come over and say how do.

“Fuck.” Crosby hissed in disbelief, his vision almost going black. He turned on his heels and stumbled in the opposite direction, not looking where he was going. He slammed straight into the front of the Range Rover which was barely going 5mph as it tried to catch up with him and went down with a thud, hit his head on the hood and passed out in the road.

*

Crosby came around in the back of the Range Rover with a splitting headache. At first, he wasn’t sure where he was and couldn’t remember why he was there, but soon enough the painful, repetitive beams of light from the streetlamps above jogged his memory somewhat. He remembered the phone call, he remembered running out of the car towards the parking lot, and he remembered seeing the Wraith, but after that there was nothing.

“We’re taking him there now.” Dennis spoke calmly into his AVOCADO which he held firmly in one hand. The other hand gripped the steering wheel, guiding the car. “Should be there in about five minutes. Back up are there already, I’ll let you when he’s being treated.”

“Good.” A voice that sounded like the Wolfking’s replied through the phone. “Tell the kid he’s off the job, would you? His old man… uh… I… uh… I can’t make it tonight, so you’ll have to do it for me.”

“Sure.” Dennis replied and the phone hung up. Crosby didn’t need telling, he’d heard it for himself. They were taking him to hospital, not his father’s hospital, but somewhere just as dodgy. There was plenty of places in the city that could fix him up, but it didn’t stop him wishing his father had gifted him a membership for the Artemis. 

Crosby felt nauseous and was sure he was going to vomit in the back of the car. How could his father pull him from the job like that? He’d been trying his best; he couldn’t even remember what he’d done wrong. One moment he’d been fearing for his life, the next he was sat here in the back of the Range Rover. Had he hurt someone? Had he done something wrong? The car passed over a pothole and Crosby yelped in fright.

When they arrived at the hospital Crosby threw up the moment he stepped out of the car. His crew rushed him inside and he was assigned a room where he was treated for concussion. When he finally had a moment alone, he stared out of the window and up to the sky. A crescent moon glared down at him and winked. Alone, confused, and exhausted, Crosby broke down his barriers and let himself cry.

*

Another week had passed since the Wolfking had forced Crosby to take a step back from the mob. “He’s gone… uh… loopy… he’s cuckoo.” His father’s own words. The Wolfking couldn’t risk having that ‘sort’ of person working for him, whether it was his son or not. Crosby’s breakdown had been the last straw, it was looking unlikely that the Wolfking would ever trust him again.

Crosby had been milling around Venice Beach and Marina Del Rey all afternoon. He’d driven here himself in a desperate attempt to escape the silence of his home. Most of the week he'd been cooped up in his bedroom, playing first person shooter games on his TV, but they always aggravated his anger problems. Going out for a while was a welcome escape. Crosby didn’t like to drive himself, he much preferred it if someone else drove, but without the mob there was no one who would. Some time alone gave him a chance to think and scrutinise everything that’d been going on in his brain lately. The phone calls, the dreams, the moon, sightings of the Wraith; those things were still happening but of course Crosby couldn’t tell anyone. His breakdown has already caused him to show too much weakness. Weakness wasn’t tolerated in the Malibu mob.

It was almost midnight now. Crosby was sat in his car, parked in the almost empty Marina Del Rey Costco parking lot. He’d just picked up an In-N-Out from the drive through across the way and was checking his burger for pickles. They’d forgotten to add extra. Again. He sighed, peeled out what flimsy pickles they had put in and shovelled them into his mouth. The burger held in one hand and his phone in the other, Crosby didn’t notice the figure approach the car window as he scrolled aimlessly through Instagram. Tap Tap. Crosby flinched and immediately dropped his phone and burger, the bun dumping its entire contents on Crosby’s jacket leaving a saucy stain.

Embarrassed and angry, Crosby looked up through the tinted window to see an irritated looking Charlie Manx waiting for him outside. The brass buttons on Charlie’s blue tailcoat glistened in the unnatural orange light which illuminated the parking lot. Crosby instantly forgot about his burger. He felt his chest grow tight, tighter than would allow him to breathe and thought maybe if he laid low, Manx would go away. Surely he couldn’t see him through the tinted windows anyway.

Another tap tap. “Do not keep me waiting, Crosby,” Charlie Manx called. “The hour is ticking, and I know you have been avoiding me.”

Crosby panicked and let the window roll down. “What the fuck do you want?” He growled.

“That is no way to talk to a friend.” Charlie Manx glared at him. His voice was the same, but he looked slightly older than the last time they’d met. He hair was starting to grey, and his skin was slightly more wrinkled. He could’ve passed for 60, maybe 50 at best. “I believe you’ve been dreaming of Christmasland.”

Crosby blinked in disbelief. How could he know? “They were nightmares,” he snapped, deciding not to question his knowledge. Charlie Manx had already proven that he knew more things than Crosby could anticipate, so there was no use in making such a big deal about it. “You kill my dad in every fucking one of them and then your sick, creepy moon laughs at my distress. Fuck you.”

“That means you belong in Christmasland!” Manx almost whispered delightfully. “Even my own daughter knows you belong there! That is why she called you, you know. She wishes to meet you.”

“Yeah?” Crosby snapped sarcastically. “Well you can just go and fucking tell her that I’m not interested. Break her fucking heart for me, I don’t care.” 

“Are you sure that you don’t want a way to prove to your father that you can be great? I know what he’s done to you, kicked you out of the mob. Such a tragedy! Every single day he gives me more reasons as to why I should’ve helped you as a child.”

Crosby frowned and rubbed his mouth nervously. He tasted ketchup on his fingers, but his mind was too focused elsewhere to notice.

“Come with me,” Manx insisted. “Come with me and we’ll prove to your father that you can be useful!” Crosby was still hesitant, but he’d lost everything in the last few weeks, and he didn’t want to admit that it was all Charlie Manx’s fault. His mind still fought a battle with itself, his fuck ups were his own fault, no one else’s. 

“Fine.” Crosby spoke dryly. He let the window slide back up, released his seat belt, grabbed his phone from the pile of burger parts on the floor, and stepped out of his car. “I’ll help you. Then will you leave me the fuck alone?”

“Come this way, little wolf.” Charlie made sure Crosby locked his car before walking him across the lot towards the Wraith. Crosby could arrange for someone to collect his car later. “You have much to learn.”


	4. Chapter 4

Much to Crosby’s dismay Charlie Manx did not take him on a job straight away. The night that he was collected from the Marina Del Rey Costco car park, Charlie had just driven him around in the Wraith for a while and talked most of the drive, telling Crosby most things he needed to know for the job. That he mustn’t be seen, that the parents must be disposed of appropriately, and that the child must never be harmed. There were of course somethings that Charlie missed out. He assumed that Crosby would be able to figure those things out for himself. The basic guidance would be enough. Once the drive was over Manx returned Crosby to his car and told him he would be in touch when the time came.

Crosby had stormed across the car park away from Manx in frustration. He’d been promised a chance to prove his worth only to have it snatched away again because, in Manx’s own words “The time is not right.” Of course, he knew that eventually he would come calling so he tried to convince his mind that soon enough he’d be able to prove to his father that he could be competent and be let back into the mob. The only problem was that his mind wouldn’t listen.

His car was right where he’d left it, the black Mercedes with tinted windows sticking out like a sore thumb in the expanse of empty lots. Crosby threw out the burger remnants that had soiled the floor mat into the parking lot along with his rubbish and clambered in. Tightening his fists around the steering wheel, Crosby slammed his forehead into the centre, causing the car horn let out one angry ‘honk’ into the awakening Los Angeles morning, and screamed. He screamed out all his pain, the disappointment, the self-loathing, and the anger. When the scream had lasted long enough Crosby felt numb. He barely had a single thought the entire drive home and when he arrived, he slept the rest of the day.

April came and went, May passed by in the blink of an eye, and there was still no sign of Charlie Manx. Very little had changed for Crosby and he was getting bored. At least the dreams no longer haunted his sleep and the phone calls from Millie Manx had ceased. Charlie Manx returned mid-June. Los Angeles was swelteringly hot as usual for that time of year, and the thought of Christmas felt like a sick joke, but that didn’t stop the Wraith from pulling up outside the gates of the Wolfking’s mansion after midnight, like Father Christmas arriving in his sleigh to deliver Crosby’s redemption. The joyful tinkling of sleigh bells woke Crosby and he instantly knew what it meant. Finally, the time had come. He hopped out of bed and started getting dressed, pulling on his jeans and jacket, lacing up his boots, and clipping on his watch. He considered putting some gel through his hair but decided there was still enough in it from yesterday to justify not having to bother. It never occurred to Crosby that it might be better to think about applying deodorant before considering applying more hair gel.

All dressed, Crosby stumbled over to the large chest of drawers stood next to the en suite door. Inside the top draw, two rows of handguns stared up at him, eagerly waiting to be chosen like tubs of candy in a traditional candy store window. He hastily glanced over the rows of Glocks, Springfields, and M&P Shields before deciding that a Glock was probably best. He chose his favourite and prepped it ready, loading in a magazine. He pocketed a second magazine just in case and in the same reach he fasted the holster to his belt and shoved the gun inside, tucking it beneath the bottom of his jacket, out of sight. Swiping his switchblade from the bowl on top of the cabinet he headed out to meet the man parked outside. The sleigh bells continued to ring out though the house as Crosby slipped through the halls towards the front door. He wasn’t expecting to find his father lounging in the entrance hall, two girls a third of his age draped across his lap as he subdued them with the deep purrs of his voice.

Orian looked up, disturbed from the girls, as Crosby passed through towards the door. “Uh… where are you…. Where are you going?”

“I’ve got work to do dad.” Crosby knew the Wolfking and the girls couldn’t hear the sleigh bells, they were reserved for his unfortunate ears only.

“Work?” Orian questioned his son with a puzzled expression.

Crosby knew not to snap at him, but now that he was no longer in the mob why did it matter to his father what he got up to? “Ya. I’ve got a new job, alright? I don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait up for me.” He swiped his key and fob from the hook by the door and set out. The Wolfking shrugged and turned back to his company. As Crosby marched down the drive towards the front gate and the Wraith parked on the tarmac on the other side, he couldn’t shift the feeling that he’d forgotten something. He ran through his mind everything that he’d picked up and everything he’d seen in the drawer, but by the time he’d skirted out of the gate and reached the passenger door, he still couldn’t figure it out. The sight of the crescent moon with one bloodshot eye caught him off guard just as he reached for the door handle and he forgot about whatever it was that he was forgetting. He flinched, even though he knew he should’ve expected it, and when he caught sight of the moon again, it was perfectly normal. From inside he heard a wheezy chuckle. Crosby scratched the side of his temple in irritation as the car door popped open all by itself. As he bent to slide onto the bench inside, he caught the sight of the man sat in the driver’s seat. A wrinkly, decrepit figure, frightfully thin and giving off an aura of decay. His translucent, wire thin hair was barely enough to hide the large red and purple blotches on his scalp. Each bony, claw-tipped finger tapped on the steering wheel in turn as he waited for Crosby to clamber in so they could be on their way, but Crosby was hesitant, uneasy, and slightly nauseous.

“Mr Manx?” He asked nervously, feeling in his gut that even though it looked nothing like the man he’d met before, this was Charlie Manx.

“It’s me, Crosby.” Charlie wheezed, his voice hoarse and old, sounding as if it was difficult to breath.

Crosby slipped onto the bench and pulled the door shut behind him. As soon as he did the Wraith pulled away from his home. He had known from the beginning that Charlie wasn’t human, or at least wasn’t as human as he’d hoped, but he didn’t expect this wrinkled bag of bones to be the same man in tails that he’d only met for the first time in February. Back in February Charlie Manx had looked about 40 and the pair could’ve been mistaken for brothers, even twins. Now Manx would’ve struggled to pass as Crosby’s grandfather. 

“Have you got everything?” Manx asked.

“I think so.”

“You think so?” Manx tuned a piercing black eye in Crosby’s direction.

“Y..yes…” Crosby mumbled, picking out a subtle condescending nature of Charlie’s voice which in reality wasn’t there.

“And you understand your job?”

“I know what I’m doing.” Crosby barked, already tired of Manx’s questions.

“Good. I have something under the seat for you.”

Crosby’s eyes narrowed and hesitantly reached for the mystery gift. He searched blind around beneath the seat until his fingers touched the cold smooth surface of something metal and he pulled it out. A shiny tin cone painted like a Christmas tree. Inside, the rattle of mechanical parts indicated that this was no ordinary cone. Crosby twisted the circular drum attached to the base of the cone once, winding it up just enough for the music box play the first few lines of Away in a Manger. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Charlie Manx breathed, his voice nasally and rough. “I thought you might be able to make use of it tonight.”

“Thanks?” Crosby was confused but he thought it only polite to thank his new boss anyway, tucking the Christmas tree cone between his legs. Next to him, Charlie Manx grinned, not taking his eyes off the road. Every crooked, hooked fang in his pale, hanging mouth flashed in the light of a streetlamp.

The Wraith pulled up in the deserted parking lot of an empty gas station outside of Malibu so the two could run through the details of the night’s plan. The vintage car should’ve stuck out, catching everyone’s attention, but the cashier inside didn’t even lift his head to check out of the window as they parked by one of the gas pumps. Tonight’s target resided in a house in El Segundo. Manx spoke of the child who lived there, and his naïve, desperate mother and disgusting stepfather. Crosby knew what he had to do, and the delay only frustrated him further. He sat there with the tin Christmas tree between his legs, nodding in agreement with everything Charlie wheezed, until finally they were on their way again. The drive to the quiet, sleepy roads of El Segundo took around thirty minutes and it didn’t take them long to navigate the neighbourhood and find the house in question either. Nestled behind a row of tree which was mirrored on the opposite side of the street, the house was one of only a handful on the street to not only have an enclosed front yard, but also have a second story. The remainder of the street consisted of bungalows, spaced perfectly away from each other, as if distancing during a pandemic. Manx parked up at the bottom of the green yard but left the Wraith’s engine running. 

Crosby opened the door and stepped out, still holding the tin Christmas tree. He was itching to get the job done and get out of there, but Manx called to him before he could push the door shut. “There’s some more tools for you in the trunk.” The trunk popped open on its own and a confused Crosby skirted round the back to check whatever could be waiting for him in there. A hook pick and tension wrench, a penlight, a pair of black cotton gloves, a plain black bandana, and most importantly, a deliciously enticing white and red candy cane, perfect to lure any child outside in the early hours of the morning in June. 

Without hesitation Crosby pulled on the gloves and pocketed the pick, wrench, penlight, and candy cane, but the bandana stumped him. Nobody was going to see his face; he was sure about that.

“What the fuck is this for? Nobody’s gonna see me.”

Charlie glared at him, bewildered that he’d even bother to ask. “But if they do see you, and they see your neck, do you not think that they might tell the police and you’ll be a prime suspect?” Immediately Crosby raises a hand to rub the wolf head tattoo on his neck, the sign of the Malibu mob. He often forgot that he was essentially a walking billboard for his father’s mob. “You wouldn’t want your father getting involved, now would you Mr Franklin?”

“No…” Crosby muttered. “Sorry Mr Manx.” He placed the tin Christmas tree on the bench for a moment before tying the bandana around his neck so that it covered his ink. “Do you not think you should’ve given me this after I put on the gloves? My fingerprints are all over it already.”

“Then bring it back out with you.” Charlie Manx mocked him sarcastically. “Now get in there, the hour is ticking.”

Crosby was taken aback by the way Manx spoke to him, causing his chest to tighten with anxiety. He hated being talked down to like that, like he was an idiot. Luckily the Wolfking didn’t talk to him like that, often, but it still stung whenever anyone else would. He grabbed the Christmas tree, tucked it under his arm, slammed the door shut with a loud bang, and stormed up towards the house.

From across the street, the house felt silent. All the lights were off, but as Crosby grew closer, he could just make out faint flashes of light through the wooden blinds in the front room. He climbed the stairs up to the porch and approached the front door where he could hear muffled buzzes and noises, the exact sound that a TV would make behind closed doors. Charlie had assured him that nobody would be awake, but the sound of the TV didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. He hesitated for a moment and checked over his shoulder at the Wraith, only to see Charlie Manx glaring at him through the driver’s window, willing him to continue. With a sigh he pulled out the pick and wrench from his pocket and set to work. Picking locks was no challenge, even for Crosby. It was a skill he’d learned up at a very early age, long before his father had even considered allowing him in the mob. A brief five seconds and the lock clicked open, allowing Crosby inside. He pulled the penlight from his pocket and switched it on as he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a second soft click. In the inside hall he could hear the TV in the front room much more clearly now. The ads had come to an end and the next show was just starting. A man introduced the show, and a second talked about his personal experiences. Crosby crept across the hall and peaked his head through the door frame, shining in the penlight. The living room was normal. Some bookcases pilled high with unread novels and tacky ornaments, at the base of which sat a large, flowerless, slightly wilting bird of paradise in a pot, almost like a depressed leafy dog. On the back wall furthest away from the door hung a dusty mirror above a shabby brown leather sofa. Asleep upright on the sofa sat a weedy white man, probably around Crosby’s age, who wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt which accentuated the spaghetti stains. One hand clutched an open, half-drunk bottle of Budweiser and between the fingers of the other perched an un-lit spliff. To his right sat a small table lamp with a lime green shade umbrellaing a neon purple bong. Crosby realised now that the whole house smelled strongly of weed. In front of snoring man, a birch coffee table smugly displayed a handful of empty Budweiser bottles, a glass ash tray filled with ashes, and a tiny clear bag of colourful pills. Crosby wasn’t 100% certain what the pills were, but from their appearance he thought they were most likely MDMA.

The loud flatscreen TV was hung on the opposite wall to the mirror, on the one that divided the front room from the hallway. “…might it be possible to find stories of alien life? My search begins now. My name is Zachary Quinto. As an actor I’ve played many supernatural characters that have blurred the line between science and fiction…” The presenter continued as Crosby finished assessing the room, he could remember watching this specific episode probably around ten years before, when he was in his early twenties.

Deciding to deal to the sleeping mess of a man last, Crosby retreated into the hallway so that he could check the rest of the house, leaving the actor presented alien conspiracy show to play loudly to itself. With a quick swoop he assessed the large open kitchen diner at the back of the house before returning to the front hall and began the ascent towards the bedrooms. As softly as he could manage, Crosby climbed without making a sound, until he was three stairs from the top. In the darkened corridor into which he shone his penlight, a single doorway was fully illuminated. Through the silent night the only sounds that could be heard were the low mumble of the TV downstairs, and the harsh hiss of someone pissing. It sounded too strong to be coming from a child; this must be the mother.

The penlight was a hinderance, even though Crosby needed it, so he scrambled around with it, trying to find somewhere to put it so that he could still see what he was doing. In the end he placed the tin Christmas tree that was still tucked under his arm on the top step and shoved the end of the penlight in his mouth to hold it between his teeth. By now the pissing had finished and was replaced by the clunk of a wooden toilet roll holder spinning as paper was torn off. Climbing the last three stairs, Crosby started to make his way across the landing towards the illuminated door, but when he was only two steps away the floorboards inconveniently decided to creak.

Crosby froze, a ripple of fear stabbed through his body. The mother had heard it. “Andre?” She called softly, standing up from the toilet and flushing. “Baby, I told you to go back to bed.” When there was no reply while she washed her hands, she called out again. “Joel?” Still no reply. She dried her hands and exited the bathroom to investigate. Crosby was waiting for her and grabbed her before she even fully acknowledged his presence. A gloved hand grasped her mouth to prevent her from screaming and a second hand on the back of her head. The last thing she saw was the penlight shining directly in her eyes before Crosby jerked her head around, snapping her neck and killing her instantly. Her body slumped in the thug’s arms. Unaffected by the murder he’d just committed, Crosby hauled the mother’s body onto his shoulder and swiftly dashed downstairs, placing her on the dining table in the dark kitchen at the back of the house. The child wouldn’t be able to see her from there.

By now the penlight had start to make Crosby gag, so he was thankful to have his hands empty again and could remove it from his teeth. He had a strong gag reflex, another disappointing thing about himself, he thought. With the penlight firmly back in his gloved hand, he headed up the stairs once more to lay the traps which would lure little Andre outside. Upstairs he silently switched off the bathroom light, leaving only the penlight to light his way and then carefully placed the candy cane at the base of Andre’s door. He knew this was Andre’s room because the door was dotted with little plastic glow in the dark stars, moons, and rockets. Crosby didn’t think those things were around anymore, he remembered them vividly from his childhood, back in the early 2000s. Once his room had been speckled with them, attached not only to his walls, but to his ceiling too. They had been intermingled with the drawings he’d done of wolves, of his father as a superhero, and his achievement certificates which he’d thrown knives at as he got older. They brought back memories of his life when he was just a small boy, too young to join the mob, but still being exposed to the dangers of his father’s work. He tried not to dwell on the horrors he'd seen at an age where he couldn’t fully process them and turned his attention back to the job at hand. Candy cane perfectly positioned he turned back to the stairs and started to wind up the tin Christmas tree. He wound it up tight, maximising the amount of time it would play. If the kid didn’t come out before it ran its course Crosby knew there was a real risk of being caught if he had to wind it again. Keeping the springs inside tight, unable to naturally unwind, he didn’t let it start playing until he’d descended a few steps so that could place it right in the centre at the top of the stairs. Upon release the upstairs hall erupted in twinkling music, loud enough to wake a child, but still soft and festive. Crosby retreated down the remaining stairs and immediately opened the front door, the signal to Charlie Manx that he should be ready. Once the kid came to inspect the tin Christmas tree, he would see the front door open and his naïve curiosity would cause him to investigate, letting Charlie Manx lead him straight into the back seat of the Wraith. 

Crosby skirted to the back of the house and sat in the darkness with the dead mother. He switched off the penlight, tucked it away in his jacket pocket, and waited. Watched, and waited. Within a minute he could hear light footsteps sleepily trailing along the hallway upstairs. The kid was awake and following the sound of the tin music box. Hidden in the shadows of the kitchen, Crosby waited as the child curiously come down the stairs and head straight out of the open front door. The backdoor to the Wraith hung was open, enticing the child like the warm arms of a mother. Inside, rows of presents wrapped in gold paper and shiny red ribbons enticed him.

Crosby knew that as soon as the kid was heading down the lawn, he didn’t have long to act. He watched as Andre left the house, the tin Christmas tree grasped tightly in his tiny hands, and instantly sprang into action. All he had left to do was dispose of the stepfather and return to Charlie Manx. Thinking on his feet he decided to pick up the dead mother and take her out of the shadows of the kitchen, into the hallway, and then into the living room, dumping her on the floor next to the sofa and the feet of her useless husband. On the TV, the presenter was watching intently as a man underwent a lie detector test. Crosby knew that of course every word he was saying was bullshit, but still the presenter looked curiously serious and determined for results.

The stepfather was still snoring away, his head lolling, and his mouth hanging open. _Perfect_ , Crosby thought to himself. It would make his plan a lot easier. He picked up the clear bag of MDMA tablets from the table and ripped it open with his teeth, poured the four colourful tablets into the palm of his gloved hand and then stuffed the now empty bag in his jeans pocket. Hopefully four pills should be enough for an overdose, and because the stepfather had been drinking, it was likely to increase the chances of him dying. Even if he didn’t die, by the time he woke up there’d be enough drugs in his system to convict him for the murder of his wife. The entire plan rested on the fact that Crosby was framing the stepfather for the mother’s death and the kid’s disappearance. He’d killed the mother, the kid had run away, and he’d taken an overdose to kill himself without the thug even being in the picture. As soon as he’d done the deed, he could be out of there. It wasn’t the most efficient of plans, but it was the best Crosby could come up with in the situation, especially because he couldn’t shoot him or stab him or slit his throat, because then that would lead the police on the case for a murderer and a kidnapper.

Crosby crept up to the stepfather and carefully dropped each pill on his tongue. There was just enough room. They started dissolving in his saliva without even waking the man. With a sigh of relief Crosby turned away, intending to leave. Except as soon as his back was turned, the stepfather began to choke. The half full Budweiser bottle fell from his grip and hit the floor with a thud, spilling the contents all over the carpet. A single pill had slipped off his tongue and tumbled down his throat. Now he was awake and would start shouting. Crosby panicked and did the only thing he reflexes told him to do. Fuck the plan, kill him, and get out of there. He whipped his gun out of its holster and intended to put two bullets in the stepfather’s brain, but he could only manage one. Because it was in that moment that he finally realised what he had forgotten to bring. The gunfire was so loud it made Crosby physically flinch, so loud in fact he almost fell over backwards before he could pull the trigger again. He’d forgotten his silencer; it was still attached to his everyday Glock back at home and because he hadn’t seen it, his brain had completely forgotten to grab it. The stepfather was dead, a red trail of blood began to trickle down his forehead, between his eyes. Through ringing ears, Crosby heard the kid shout from outside. He knew he’d fucked up big time. Without thinking Crosby fled from the crime scene, out of the front door and straight into the path of the kid who was running back up the yard. With one arm Crosby scooped up the screaming kid as he passed and hauled him towards the Wraith, throwing him in the backdoor and slamming it shut before rushing around to the passenger’s side and diving in himself. With at least a tiny bit of luck Andre hadn’t dropped the tin Christmas tree and now it lay lifeless on the backseat beside the screaming, terrified child.

“FUCKING DRIVE!” Crosby yelled, knowing that the sound of gunfire would’ve alerted the entire neighbourhood. The neighbours had probably seen everything, and the police would be here within minutes. Manx put his foot on the gas and the Wraith sped off, but he wasn’t happy. In fact, Charlie Manx was furious. The seething anger radiating from Manx only heightened Crosby’s fear until he was sure he’d fall into a full-blown panic attack. In the back-seat Andre was hysterical, screaming from the top of his lungs, lunging himself at the door, and even trying to grab Crosby and Charlie in the front seat. Thankfully, when the kid tried to throw his outstretched hand between the head rests it disappeared, as if being thrust through a portal. That made the child scream more, and he pulled his hand back in horror, finding it unharmed.

“I told you never to man handle a child.” Charlie Manx wheezed threateningly, taking his eyes off the road to glare at Crosby.

“You…” Crosby was having trouble breathing, but he still found the strength to retaliate angrily. “You never fucking told me not to man handle a child. You only told me not to fucking hurt it.”

“I told you to dispose of the parents and let him come to me. You have failed at the first hurdle Mr Franklin, your forgetfulness caused you to be seen and then you caused so much harm to the child. No child should have to go through the trauma you’ve just put little Andre through.”

“I didn’t forget my fucking silencer.” Crosby frothed through clenched teeth.

“You’re a dirty little liar.”

“Yeah? You only just fucking realised? I’ve had to grow up as part of a mob, and you expect me not to lie? I’ve had to lie through the entirety of my miserable fucking life just so that my father doesn’t think I’m as fucked up as I really am, and where has that got me?” 

“Your actions tonight have put you straight on my naughty list.” Manx hissed. “If I were in my right mind, I’d dispose of you right now.”

“You’d really do that?” Crosby almost laughed bitterly through his pain. “You’d really just hang me out like that? You’re the one who chose me, you’re the one who knew how much of a fucking disappointment I am. You know that I’m a fuck up who deserves to drown because I’m just so much of a joke that I don’t deserve to be alive… and yet you still fucking chose me. You wanted someone who wouldn’t fuck up the jobs, so why the fuck did you choose me?”

“I wanted you to see your own worth Mr Franklin, I wanted to-”

“No,” Crosby snapped, cutting off Charlie’s sentence. He didn’t need excuses. “I have no fucking worth, get it. I’m useless. Tonight’s mess, that’s on you. This entire fucking mess is on you, not me.”

Charlie Manx didn’t reply. He turned his eyes back to the road and drove. Crosby wanted to scream, to wring his hand’s around the bastard’s neck, he wanted to cry. His entire body was physically shaking from anger and he couldn’t bare it anymore.

“Stop the fucking car.” He demanded.

“What?” Charlie questioned his logic, but Crosby didn’t care.

“I said stop the fucking car.” Before Manx could even pull over Crosby had opened the car door and was tumbling out onto the sidewalk. He landed on his hands and knees on the paving slabs.

“Get back in here.” Charlie called. “The police will find out.” Crosby could hear the distant wail of police sirens, almost at the scene of the crime, and overhead a police helicopter swooped in the direction they’d just come.

“Well they’ll fucking find me in that fucking car with you too.”

“Get in the car, Mr Franklin.” Charlie insisted, his voice now unnervingly gentle. From the back of the car Andre’s screams were alerting the neighbours. “You will be just fine in here until I can deliver you a safe distance away from the crime scene.”

Crosby hesitated. As much as he didn’t want to get back in the car, for some reason he knew Charlie was right. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he pulled himself back to his feet and clambered into the Wraith once more. A cop car sped past just as he slammed the door shut and for a moment he froze in fear, thinking they’d do a U-turn and arrest them on the spot. It carried on towards the scene of the crime, not even noticing the Wraith. Nobody would notice the Wraith. Andre was Charlie Manx’s kid now; Crosby had at least succeeded in something.


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie Manx returned one week later. Crosby was down on his father’s beach, causing trouble. One of the mob’s other enforcers had looked at him funny, so now he was moments away from starting a fight. Crosby knew his status, even if still wasn’t part in the mob, and he liked to show it off. He used his status to push people around, and although he might not be threatening enough or even knew how to fight properly, it was a way to let out his anger. He was about to make an advance, push the thug down and start scrapping, when he noticed the Wraith parked on the dirt road that led down to the beach. Instantly, Crosby backed away from the fight, being taunted as he retreated up the sand towards the vintage car. The thug called Crosby weak and a pussy for backing out of the fight that he’d started, and it stung because deep down he knew it was true. That the Wolfking was right, Crosby was didn’t deserve to be in the mob, he deserved to drown. Crosby tried to distract his ears from the shouts by focusing on the crunch of the white grains beneath his bare feet as he trudged towards the Wraith. He didn’t even know how it could come this close to the beach; it shouldn’t have been able to get past the tight security at the front of the estate.

He pulled at the door handle and slipped inside. Charlie Manx looked as fresh as a spring lamb. He was young again, younger than he’d looked the first time the two had met. His hair was thick, slick, and black once again and his skin was flawless and smooth. He smiled at Crosby as he clambered into the Wraith and pulled the door shut, each hooked tooth appearing slightly less sharp and much whiter than before. Now the pair could pass unmistakably for twins. From the radio, Bing Crosby sung about how he was dreaming of a white Christmas.

“I once had an assistant who was named after Bing Crosby.” Manx declared, breaking the momentary awkward silence. “I have always wondered the same about you.”

“What?”

“Whether you got your name from the delightful Bing Crosby too? Your father does seem like the type of man who would name his children after people who influence his life.”

“Oh…” Crosby thought for a moment. “He is, but I think I’m named after David Crosby…”

“Ah, that would make sense. Though, it would have amusing me to have worked with two people named after the great man himself.” Charlie mused for a moment. “I do think about young Mr Bing Partridge from time to time. Alas, his demise was particularly grizzly.”

Crosby didn’t want to hear about previous assistants. “What do you want?” He snapped, rapidly changing the subject.

“That is no way to talk to me.” The smile flashed from Manx’s face. Suddenly his eyes were cold. 

“Well, we didn’t exactly part on good fucking terms, did we? And now you just show up on my father’s private property and start talking about whatever you did to the people before me. If you’ve come to punish me like you did all the others just fucking get on with it.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Mr Franklin. I am not here to punish you.”

Crosby frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Then why are you here?”

“My drive to Christmasland gave me some time to…” Charlie paused to think of the right word, “…reflect on the way that I treat you. It should be known that I am strict on those who work for me, in order to test both loyalty and to ensure that they are fit to reside in Christmasland. I will and do punish mistakes. However, you leave me in a strange predicament.”

“I’m a special case now am I?”

“Precisely. I chose you because I know that you are capable of great things, regardless of the mistakes you make. You are desperate to be seen with pride in your father’s eyes, and yet you have been punished for it your entire life. He makes you feel worthless, no matter how hard you try. I understand now that I cannot be so harsh on you, because if I were then that would make me just as bad as him.” Crosby stared at him, mouth open in disbelief. “Please understand Mr Franklin,” Charlie continued. “Your father forged your place in Christmasland. If I were to treat you the same as he has done, then that would make me a hypocrite. If I were to be as bad as your father, then how can I expect any of my other children to ever trust me as a father again? I want only the best for you. That is not to say that there won’t be repercussions if you were to severely damage yours or indeed my own reputations. That wouldn’t do. But I realise that I should not judge you so harshly on the smaller mistakes you make. I make a promise to you now that not all things I ask of you in the future will be as difficult as last.” 

Crosby was having difficulty processing what Manx was saying. There was a lot of words all at once and they squirmed inside his brain like live spaghetti. Charlie had become aware of Crosby’s processing issue. “To put everything simply,” he almost whispered. “I trust you to make the right decisions and so I can say with good faith that you will not be put onto the naughty list for minor mistakes. Is that understood?”

Crosby nodded, rubbing his moustache, feeling anxious. “I’m still going to fuck up though, you know that right?”

Charlie paused, and before agreeing with a single nod of his head. “I do, yes, but I have come to terms with that fact and so long as you continue to give 110% you will have nothing to worry about.”

None of the words Charlie Manx said were really making it any easier for Crosby to hear. He knew he should feel relieved to know that finally he would be judged on his merits, rather than his mistakes, but instead it made him unease. 

“I just wanted you to know,” Charlie continued “that your plan was ingenious. It really could have worked out. Disposal of the parents is by far the hardest part of any job, and I commend you for your instincts to cover any traces of your presence. It is just unfortunate that you didn’t apply more critical thinking. Do you not suppose you should have crushed the tablets before administering them?”

Crosby didn’t want to answer that question. He knew Charlie was right, he should’ve thought of that himself. It was stupid really. It was these sorts of things that Crosby fucked up the most. His ideas were sound in principle, but when he applied himself the whole thing would backfire. No matter how much Charlie praised him, it wouldn’t ever shake his own overburdening sense of failure, his own brain would only ever allow himself to process and digest criticism. He shuffled uncomfortably on the bench and reached for the door handle.

“Going so soon?” Charlie asked, knowing he wouldn’t get any kind of acknowledgement from the thug. “Well then I shall bid you farewell.” Crosby popped the door and swung his legs out. “I will give you a call when I need your assistance next. It won’t be for several months yet, and I will give you at least a week’s notice.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Crosby mumbled, not really listening to what Manx was saying. He just wanted to go home.

“Until next time.” Manx called as the door shut automatically behind him. With that the Wraith pulled away and that was the last of Charlie Manx that Crosby would see for another five months.

*

Disappearances

**November – Bethany, OR**

Logan O’Farrell woke to the smell of thick smoke. At first it had barely made him stir, he was used to light smoke. His father would sometimes burn wood in the backyard late at night with a beer in his hand, usually after him and Logan’s mother had fought. Logan always insisted on sleeping with the window (even in the winter), and so after a fight, the smell of wood smoke filtering in through his window would carry him off to sleep. But this was different. His parents hadn’t been fighting that night, in fact he was sure he’d heard them wrestling playfully downstairs only a few hours before. This smoke was heavy, it stung his lungs and he woke up coughing. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from the hall. Instantly, Logan knew something was wrong. Already his eyes were watering from the soot and smell of toxic plastic as it burnt, leaving streaks down his usually radiant cheeks. He fell out of bed in panic and raced across his room, yanking his bedroom door open, only for a ball of hot smoke to immediately him in the face. Logan fell backwards onto the floor with a cry, coughing harder and harder, and slammed his door shut with his heel. Desperately he crawled along the floor towards the open window, throwing back the spiderman curtains when he arrived and gulped in as much fresh air as he could. The air outside also tasted like smoke, but it hurt his lungs a little less. Logan didn’t know what had started the fire, but he knew he had to get out of the house. Hopefully his father would swoop in through his bedroom door and save him like a real life Superman, and he’d be carried to safety, but the longer he waited the thicker the smoke became and the harder it was to breath, even with his head stuck out the window. They wouldn’t have forgotten about him, would they? He thought. No of course not, he decided, and with that he realised that they were probably suffering themselves. What if he needed to save them? What if Logan had to be Superman? Knowing it wasn’t safe to stay in his room any longer, Logan considered climbing out of the window, but already orange flames were clawing at the lawn from the downstairs windows. The only way out was through the hall and down the stairs. He was going to have to face the fire head on, he was going to have to be brave. He grabbed his Murphey from the bed (Logan didn’t go anywhere without his stuffed bear) and prepared himself for the thickest smoke. His lungs were already sore, but he had to save his parents and he had to get outside.

Before he could reach the door himself, it flung open and a man stepped in. He was wearing what looked like a funny face mask, with a clear visor and two filters. It was an industrial respirator, but Logan was too young to know the name, it could’ve been any kind of gas mask to him. The man wore a thick full body suite and helmet. Behind the visor Logan could see a moustache as thick as the man’s eyebrows, and the look of fear in his eyes. He assumed he was a fireman, come to rescue him.

Logan tried to cry out for his parents as the man scooped him up in his strong arms and carried him into the hall, but the smoke was making it impossible to breath. Without hesitation, the man marched through the burning house, and when they were finally outside, Logan was too weak from smoke inhalation. He was carried all the way across his lawn and sat on the backseat of a car. Logan didn’t really know what exactly was going on, but as he clutched Murphey as tightly as he could manage, he knew he was safe. The man who’d rescued him had ripped off his facemask and helmet immediately after Logan had been placed in the car. He looked tough, all firefighters were supposed to look tough, Logan thought.

“We’re gonna get you to hospital.” He spoke to Logan; his voice was deep and hoarse. Logan coughed, suddenly remembering his parents. “Your parents are already on their way to the hospital.” Another voice reassured him. It was wheezy and sounded old and it came from the front of the car. Logan nodded, exhausted, but relieved that his parents were safe, and settled into the seat, holding the soot-covered Murphey in his arms. It didn’t once occur to Logan that there weren’t any fire trucks about, or anyone else for that matter. He didn’t even acknowledge that the car they were in wasn’t an ambulance or that it was being driven by a man who looked more like a prune than a human being. The ‘fireman’ climbed into the front seat and they started driving away. Logan’s rubbed his eyes. They felt heavy and were still raw from the smoke. He’d see his parents soon when they got to hospital and everything would be okey. Except, what he didn’t know was that his parents were already dead, burned up inside their home. Their throats had been slit before the fire had even started and by now, they were nothing but charred remains. Logan didn’t even notice when they passed right by the hospital and continued driving. He was on the way to Christmasland. 

**April – Arlington, WA**

The forests were Silvia Bennet’s playground. The dense undergrowth and the canopy of shade made for the perfect adventures, all of which were accompanied by her trusty side kick, Pippa, the border collie. Silvia didn’t have many friends, not that there were many kids her age in the small village outside Arlington that she called home anyway. She didn’t need friends, not when she had Pippa. The pair could spend hours together exploring the vastness of the forests, letting their imagination run wild. Silvia’s mother worked full time, and couldn’t afford childcare, but she knew for fact that Pippa would protect her daughter with her life. When Silvia was born, Pippa instantly became attached; she’d even growl at anyone who wasn’t her parents who tried to come near the new born. They were inseparable. Pippa was also excellent at navigating their way home, and had never gotten Silvia lost once, no matter how deeply into the wild they wandered. Silvia’s mother couldn’t ask for better childcare than the dog she already had at home.

The two bounded through the woods, Pippa up ahead barking joyfully, whilst Silvia brought up the rear. She screamed through the trees, holding out a stick like it was a sword, and pretended they were charging into battle against the evil troll emperor who was keeping all the birds hostage. Of course, it was all make-believe, but in the mind of a child, it almost felt real. Still, Silvia’s mind wasn’t strong enough to pull her imagination into reality and make it physically real. 

Silvia swung her stick sword, slicing through branches, leaving a trail of trampled wildflowers and shrubs as she went. She felt so free, so alive, out in the forests with Pippa by her side. One day when she was older, she imagined she might have a house of her own which led out into the forest. She’d continue to have adventures with Pippa forever, fighting all the bad guys who lived in her imagination, but dwelled in the shadows.

The two had been leaping through the trees, running without a care in the world, for what felt like hours (but was no more than five minutes) when Silvia tripped on a branch, falling face first into the carpet of soggy leaves. The sound of her fall was louder than she expected. More of a pop or a bang, than a squishy thud. Pippa hadn’t noticed her fall and had bounded out of sight. “Pippa!” Silvia called to the border collie, expecting her head to appear out of a nearby bush. She clambered to her feet and wiped down the front of her dungarees; her knees were damp with bits of leaf litter. When Pippa didn’t emerge, Silvia called out again, but to no avail. She was starting to worry. It wasn’t like Pippa to wander off and not come back when she called her name. Silvia trailed across the forest floor in the direction they’d been travelling and found Pippa behind a tree not even twenty paces ahead.

Except, Pippa was lying on her side, spasming violently, kicking up dirty and leaves as she shook. Silvia screamed and ran to her dog’s side. She screamed and screamed, not knowing what to do as Pippa shuddered. She’d been fine only a minute before, there hadn’t been anything wrong with her. Confused and scared, Silvia knelt beside her best friend, holding her, still not knowing what was wrong with Pippa. She didn’t know that a lead bullet was lodged in her trachea, shot from an air rifle at the exact moment that Silvia had fallen. The bullet took fur and skin with it into the wound, almost plugging it, and so because there was no bleeding it was practically impossible for Silvia to notice. It didn’t seem like anything was physically wrong with Pippa, except for the fact that she was having a seizure in the dirt. Silvia continued to scream, feeling hot tears burn her cheeks, and tried to pick Pippa up, but she was too heavy.

Moments later, Silvia heard a rustling in the undergrowth and looked up to see a man racing towards her. He was tall and wore a black bomber jacket, blue jeans, and heavy boots. His face was stern, sporting a moustache, but his bushy eyebrows were painted with concern. “Are you alright?” He shouted to her as he approached. “I heard your screams, are you okey?”

Silvia didn’t need to answer; when he arrived, he could see the problem. “Is this your dog?” He asked, his voice was uneasy. Silvia didn’t realise that he was feigning concern, all she knew was that someone had come to help. She would never even realise that he was the one who had shot Pippa. Propped up against a tree 50 yards to the left, an air rifle sat abandoned. It wasn’t needed now. 

“Do you live close?”

She nodded, sobbing so hard it was difficult to talk. “I…” She could barely breathe through her tears and gasped at the air.

“Let’s get you to my car, I’ll get you home and we’ll take your dog to the vets, yeah?” All Silvia could do was bob her head as the man scooped Pippa up. The cuffs of his sleeves rolled up slightly as he lifted, showing off his strong but hairy arms.

The two walked through the forest, Pippa still spasming in the man’s arms, until they reached a road. “This is my car.” The man indicated to an old-fashioned car parked at the side of the road. Silvia didn’t even think to question why the man had an fancy old car, or why it was parked with the engine still running at the side of the road in the middle of the woods, or even why it was suspiciously close to where they’d been playing. All she saw was a chance to get Pippa to safety. The man placed Pippa on the backseat and let Silvia climb in after her. She settled on the bench and ran her fingers through Pippa’s black and white fur, noticing that the man wasn’t even going to drive the car himself. A wrinkled hag of a man sat in the driver’s seat on the wrong side of the car. In any normal situation she would’ve thought that was weird, but she was far too concerned for Pippa to question it right now. “This is my grandfather,” The man said as he clambered into the passenger side of the car. “He’s going to take us straight to the vets.” Right on cue the car started moving in the direction that Silvia assumed was towards town. She was exhausted from sobbing, and yet the tears still flowed. Cautiously as to not hurt her, Silvia curled up on the bench and rested her head on Pippa’s stomach. _It’s going to be okey_ , she told Pippa in her head, although that was not how reality would work out. Silvia closed her eyes, holding her dog tightly, and when she would reopen them Pippa would be dead. The car wasn’t taking them to the vet, and by the time Silvia realised Pippa had passed away, she might’ve even found it funny. 

**October – San Francisco, CA**

_Pinggggggggg…_

A text arrived on Harrison Williams’ iPhone. He was sat on the sofa, alone in his father’s house, watching re-runs on Cartoon Network when the text came through. His mother had bought him the iPhone when his parents separated, as a way of making him feel better about the whole situation. It hadn’t made him feel the slightest bit better, but at least he’d gotten a fancy new phone that he could show off to his friends. Harrison dug around in his jacket pocket for his phone and the home button when he fished it out. The screen flashed on and displayed half a text from his dad. He pressed in the unlock code with his thumb and opened the full message.

_Hey sport, sorry u came home to an empty house again they got me working late. I shouldnt be 2 much longer but I ordered pizza anyway. Its all paid for. Put mine on the counter if im not home. Love u x_

His father worked for some tech company that Harrison wasn’t exactly sure what the name was, or what he did in his job, but they did sometimes make him work late. Usually he could wiggle his way out of lates when he had Harrison over for the week, but it seemed on this occasion the bosses were being insistent. Harrison didn’t mind so much; it gave him a chance to consume as many snacks as possible after school without getting caught. His father’s house was much closer to his school than his mother’s, so when he was staying with his dad, he was able to walk home on his own. He was almost twelve now and having the opportunity to walk home alone felt like a huge victory in the maturity department. When he was staying with his mother, she had to pick him up in the car because she lived further out, and the school bus didn’t stop on the route near her house. He preferred staying with his father anyway. He got to do things when he stayed round with his dad. They went out on day trips together and they often got a takeout. It was just annoying when his father had to work late, because then they didn’t get to eat their takeout together.

Jim Williams was planning on taking his son to the San Francisco International Auto Show in a month’s time. The pair were both fascinated by cars. In fact, Harrison’s father owned a massive collection of vintage and modern diecast cars. He had well over a hundred, displayed in cabinets all over his house. When Harrison was younger, he’d let him play with the less expensive ones, but as he grew Harrison had shown an interest in collecting himself. A large proportion of the collection had been passed down to Harrison’s father by his grandfather, but over the years it had continued to grow. It was always an exciting day when Harrison would arrive at his father’s house and be greeted by a new diecast car model. The collection belonged as much to him, as it did to his father now. 

The pizza arrived around half an hour later and Harrison’s father still wasn’t home. He threw himself off the sofa as soon as the doorbell rung and hurried out to collect his dinner, hoping to be met with ham and pineapple. His favourite. When he pulled the door open a tall, hairy man was stood on the porch. He wore jeans and a jacket and had a funny tattoo on his neck. It sort of looked like a wolf. In his hands he held two pizza boxes and, on the top, sat a third, smaller box of potato wedges.

“Uh… Jim Williams?” The guy asked, seemingly not expecting to be met by an eleven-year-old.

“That’s my dad.” Harrison replied, taking the hot pizza boxes. “Thanks.” Just as the pizza guy turned to leave, Harrison spotted the car parked at the bottom of their yard. His heart swelled with excitement and he could barely contain himself. “Is that you’re car?” It was a vintage Rolls Royce! Harrison wasn’t exactly sure on the model, but it looks like one that his father had in his collection.

“Huh?” The pizza guy turned around. “Oh yeah… kinda? It’s my grandfather’s car. He’s helping me make deliveries while my car’s in the garage.”

“It’s so cool! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real old Rolls Royce before.” Harrison set the pizza boxes on the floor before they starting to burn his arms. Through the open door the pizza guy had been able to see the glass cabinets full of diecast cars, so already he knew Harrison was an enthusiast.

“Do you wanna have a closer look?” He asked him.

Harrison didn’t even need to be asked twice. His face lit up like a Christmas tree and he almost shot out of the front door at supersonic speed. As he approached the car, the backdoor opened so he could see inside. It didn’t even occur to him that he might want to be cautious, he was still at the bottom of his front lawn, what harm could it be? When he reached the car the smell of the leather benches almost made him vibrate. A vintage car, like the models he and his father collected, but REAL!

From the open passenger door, Harrison could see the driver, sat by the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car. He was a shrivelled, decrepit old man with wire thin hair and a head covered in liver spots. “Hello.” He wheezed, addressing Harrison in a friendly, but harsh voice. “Have you come to check out my car?”

Harrison peaked his head through the door. “This is so cool! How did you get it?”

“I have had this car a very long time.” The driver replied. “But I only recently re-upholstered the benches. Do you want to try them out?” Harrison considered for a moment before clambering onto the backseat. He only meant to have a quick sit before getting back out; he was going to thank the driver for letting him sit in his car, and then he was going to take a couple of pictures to show his dad later. Except, as soon as he sat down the door slammed shut behind him. It made him jump and suddenly his excitement vanished. It all turned to fear.

“Hey let me out!” He banged on the door and tugged on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “HEY!” Harrison could feel himself start to panic. Through the window, he spotted the pizza man close the front door to his dad’s house and begin walking down the drive towards the car. Once he reached the car he clambered into the front passenger’s seat without a word and the car was away. Harrison screamed and screamed, realising what was happening. He screamed for his father, who was far closer than he realised. Jim Williams was lying sedated beneath the back bench. He’d been attacked on his way to his car in the office parking lot and had been shoved into the trunk of the Wraith; he wasn’t working late at all. The pizza man had stolen his phone once he was unconscious and sent the text to an unsuspecting Harrison after a quick browse through his message history. It wasn’t difficult to mimic the way his father typed. When Jim would awaken it would be too late to save Harrison. In fact, Harrison was going to take the first bite out of him.

Two days later his mother would arrive at Jim’s house to collect their son, after not hearing from the two of them all weekend. She would find the house empty, cold pizza still in their boxes on the floor by the unlocked front door, and Cartoon Network still showing repeats on the TV.


End file.
